


The Russian Ideal

by Gothams_Only_Wolf



Series: Widow Bites [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: BAMF Natasha Romanov, BAMFs, Blood and Violence, Bucky is Yakov, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Multi, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Shitty coffee bonds people, Spies & Secret Agents, Spies are Fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 17:04:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7323568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gothams_Only_Wolf/pseuds/Gothams_Only_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Widow, The Soldier and The Spy walk into a bar. </p><p>Companion piece to In Over My Head</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Russian Ideal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cup_aTea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cup_aTea/gifts).



> Tbh, this sat for a good month or so in my WIPs. Coffee, sugar and painkillers got me through the rest of it. Illya!Muse was bloodthirsty after having been on the sidelines for a while. 
> 
> Enjoy? 
> 
>    
>  **CAVEAT: Illya's in freakishly good health for an eighty-something guy.**

* * *

Illya spots Natasha sitting outside of the cafe she's asked him to meet her at. She's bright, teasing a man whose body language is slightly defensive. 

"Illya, you made it." She pushes out a seat with her foot while turning it so that he's still got a decent view of the street. "Yakov, Illya." They shake hands, neither willing to comment on the other's posture or awareness of the crowd around them. 

"Why New York?" Illya combs back his silver-laced hair and pops his knee before he orders from the waitress. 

"The Tower. It's easier for you to come from Vermont than to bother Leo or Gaby." She says but the frown lines at the corners of her mouth betray the white lie. 

Illya snorts and runs an experienced eye over Yakov. It's more than that though Illya doesn't necessarily _mind_ the drive. He tactfully refrains from commenting as he accepts his coffee and tests it by dipping his spoon into it, examining the way the liquid drips. 

"My fox would love it here. She flourishes in the city, as you well know," he counters with a wry smile. "It's the skittish wolf you didn't want to move." 

"Is that what you think?" Natasha's response only makes Yakov scowl. 

"I was a spy, though Leo insists I was terrible; as if I didn't notice the six knives, four guns, three explosives and a garrot sewn into the lining of the sleeve." Illya laughs at the deepening scowl. "I retired a year ago. If I wasn't still sharp, I would be dead. U.N.C.L.E. made a lot of enemies." 

Yakov whips around to stare Natasha down with narrowed blue eyes. 

"U.N.C.L.E?!" 

"One of the founders," she blithely acknowledges and Yakov's shoulders unknot. "Illya and I have known each other since what," 

"'58? I thought she was going to kill me." He leans back and drinks his coffee with perfect ease. "Natasha did nothing of the sort, of course, but my twenty-three year old self got the shock of a lifetime." The smile that plays at his lips makes Natasha laugh. "What was that KGB phrase?" 

"The only good failure..." 

"Is a dead one." Yakov completes and both Natasha and Illya grin at the familiar words. "Ex-KGB, former U.N.C.L.E. Agent... Anything else?" 

"Plenty."

* * *

The next meeting is at a Russian bar in Bed Stuy. Natasha's first husband has been having... trouble with some Russian mafia types. Illya still has that terrible itch to destroy things and this is a favor he does willingly. 

"That half-wit who bought our building doesn't know what's good for him." comes the complaint from the second biggest Russian in the bar. 

"Firing arrows like this isn't the 21st century," the other at the low bar remarks with a sneer. 

"Boss said we should just eliminate him." 

"Boss's partner said it was a bad idea. Guy could have connections of his own." 

"You are correct in saying he has connections, though sadly none of you are very smart nor subtle." Illya drawls as he knocks back his vodka and spots Yakov in a different corner doing the same. "That half-wit is married to my friend, you see, and she doesn't have the time to kick your ass herself. She has better things to do..."

"So here we are." Yakov finishes hoarsely. "Besides," He cracks his neck and his knuckles on the flesh hand with a bloodthirsty grin which matches Illya's spreading one. "I haven't had a good bar fight in _forever_." 

"An old man and a homeless one. Wonderful." 

"Yes, it is." Illya purrs as he stands up for the first time since entering the bar. "You really should've been paying attention to your surroundings." 

All eyes in the room track his 6'5" frame as he pulls his chair back with one hand, making a 'come get me' gesture with the other. 

The taller one lunges for Illya with a grunt that's short-lived seeing as Illya clothes-lines him. He follows it with a solid set of jabs to the man's face until blood flows freely over the cheeks and chin. 

Illya ducks under the chair thrown at him, the mad light in his eyes the same one as the one that let him lift a motorcycle over his head. Muscles that haven't forgotten how to move slide effortlessly as Illya puts them to good use.

Yakov strikes hard and fast while taking out three at time with relative ease. The dark eyes are alight with something bright, something remembered as Yakov fights like the brawler he truly is. Blood flies as he and Yakov end up back-to-back, fists hitting solid muscle and fat that will cause severe bruising and broken bones for those that come into contact with them. 

Illya licks at his split lip and grins at his companion before examining his own knuckles. They're scraped and bruised but Illya's inner beast is sated, practically asleep after all of the fighting. 

"We should do that again." Yakov murmurs as they right their chairs and go back to drinking vodka as though they haven't laid out half the bar's population. 

"Hmm." 

The bartender just slides another bottle onto the table.

* * *

Natasha catches wind of the bar runs on their third trip out to a city where they can pick a fight. She shows up to the fifth, settling into her barstool with a sense of 'don't speak to me' radiating from her. 

It attracts the sort of man who isn't a gentleman, the kind Yakov and Illya despise deeply. The kind that don't take **_no_** for an answer. Natasha pulls off helpless waif a little too well sometimes, Illya admits, because when she leaves the bar the men _follow._

'Are you going to kick their asses or not?' She signs before she gets off the stool. 

Illya and Yakov trail the men like twin shadows, slipping in and out of their environment like they were born to it. 

Natasha strikes first, her fist a blur as it hits the first man in the throat, the solar plexus and the groin in successive moves. 

He goes down with a gurgle that alerts the others that _they_ are the prey instead of her. Illya and Yakov circle the men, laughing when they whirl in fright. Yakov drags off his target with the scream frightening the other two into a back-to-back formation that Illya can tear apart with his bare hands. 

His mentor stands in the lamplight looking as innocent as she can with a man wheezing at her feet. 

Illya does so enjoy picking them off one-by-one. He strikes like a snake, breaking an arm before dropping the man to use his thighs in a move Natasha taught him years ago, catching the final opponent off-guard before snapping the man's spinal cord with a vicious grin. 

Blood is something they all share, especially when they're covered in someone else's, but not the only thing.

* * *

Yakov offers him coffee, both of them dangling their legs over the edge of Clint's building. 

Illya takes a sip and sprays it in the next moment. 

"That is officially the shittiest coffee I have ever tasted in my life." He says after he stops coughing. 

"It's Clint's," Yakov admits with a shrug. 

"That tar does not deserve to be called coffee." Illya declares as he stares at it. He shrugs and continues to drink it, not surprised when Yakov does the same. It's warm, at least, and they listen to the ambient noise of the cityscape around them. 

Thus begins a tradition of shit coffee (always Clint's) and rooftop talks.

* * *

Despite wanting to cross his arms and scowl at everything in sight, Illya grudgingly admits that the Avengers are treating him quite well. 

Being kidnapped by HYDRA, of all things, along with Yakov was not on his list of honey-dos this morning. 

_"You too?"_

_"I'm going to kill them all. Care to join me?" Illya inquires serenely as they transport them both into a van._

_Yakov snorts but replies, "Of course."_

Neither was being shot with an expiramental ray device and de-aging back to his U.N.C.L.E. days but he takes being younger and the ability to beat them to a soundless pulp in stride. 

_"You're the perfect test subject!"_

_"When I get out of these straps, you will regret this."_

_"Nonsense."_

_They do regret it; all the way up until Illya snaps their necks._

"Exactly how old are you, currently?" Tony Stark is insatiably curious but Illya has managed to gain patience in his late-seventies.

"My scars say about my mid-twenties, especially the bullet-ricochet one." He assesses after pulling up his shirt absently. "I got that when I was twenty-three but I don't see the one that marks my twenty-sixth birthday yet so somewhere between those two ages." 

"What marks your twenty-sixth?" Banner asks politely while also bringing coffee and much appreciated food. Illya hasn't felt this hungry in a long while, so it comes as a shock to him. 

"Someone tried to carve out my liver. Fun times," he answers before diving into the food. "What?" 

"'Tried to carve out my liver,' he says like it's normal." Tony repeats in a disbelieving tone. 

"It was the '60s. Not everyone liked Russians back then," Illya snorts. "It was perfectly normal to try and stab a KGB Agent in Northern Europe." 

"... Natasha, you have got to stop making friends with unfriendly Russian hotties." Tony mutters as Natasha glides into the room with a phone for Illya. 

"Illya, darling, what have you—Mmm." Gaby hums in appreciation before she frowns. "Did you kill them already?" 

" ** _Yes._** " Illya grins savagely with extreme satisfaction. 

"Too bad." Gaby pouts but gives him a soft look. 

"I made a friend." 

"Oh?" 

"The Winter Soldier." 

"Only you, darling." Leo laughs as he butts into the call in Russian. "Not that I don't appreciate your face, but did you leave any for us?" 

"He didn't." Gaby sighs as she presses a kiss to Leo's forehead. "We're coming in shortly. Love you, Ovcharka." 

"Love you, my sweet foxes." Illya smiles with genuine affection as the frame freezes on Gaby and Napoleon's faces.

* * *

He ends up with Natasha and Yakov using him as a pillow, his shoulders perfect for the job as the re-aging serum works through him. Banner and Stark have figured out the device and 'cured' him back to his proper age at a decent rate. 

"Illya?" Yakov asks as Natasha curls into a ball on Illya's right side. 

"Yes?" 

"What do you do when there's only red in your past and only shadows of who you used to be?" The haunted blue gaze makes Illya ache emotionally. 

"Find the light and piece what you can back together." Illya murmurs as he presses a soft kiss to the man's forehead after he does the same to Natasha. "Forge your own way but make sure to rely on those you can trust." 

"... I trust you." comes the soft admission, built over the months of rooftop shit coffee and bar fights. 

"As good a place to start as any, I suppose."

**Author's Note:**

> Comment, complain, ect.


End file.
